BUSON RISES TO GREAT HEIGHTS
AT HIS SECOND PIANO RECITAL
Chopin's Twenty-four Preluds a Feature of Program Presented in
New York by Italian Pianist, Who Scores Another Marked Triumph
When after his performance of Chopin's twenty-four preludes on Wednesday afternoon of last week Ferruccio Busoni arose from the piano amid thunderous applause of an audience that crowded Carnegie Hall, and when two ushers carried down to the platform an enormous wreath sent by the pianist's brother in art, Paderewski, the climax of one of the most marvelous exhibitions of piano playing ever heard in this city or ever likely to be heard anywhere else had been attained. When at the close of the program the vast audience rushed as by a common impulse toward the stage and even though the lights had been lowered continued to request, demand and implor the artist for more, it was more than evident that a dozen more recitals would not thoroughly satisfy the popular craving for Busoni's art. It was not necessary, however to await the end of the concert to be apprized of this fact. Fifteen minutes before it began the lobby presented the appearance of a gala night at the opera, and there was more than one music-lover who must have bitterly regretted that he had neglected to provide himself with a ticket a long while beforehand. Inside, the two galleries were a sight to behold, and the infrequently seen standees occupied the rear of the parquet. When it is said that the enthusiasm of this gathering was fully proportionate to its size, there needs no further proof that the concert must be marked in red letters on the musical calendar of this year.
Busoni's program might almost have been called a musical feast fit for the gods. It occupied less than two hours in performance, but in that time offered more of the quintessence of true music than some pianists do in as many years. It opened with four of the player's own transcriptions, that of a Bach Toccata, Adagio and Fugue, Beethoven's "Ecossaises" and a Mozart and Paganini number. It closed with Liszt's splendid but infrequently heard sonata in one movement, while between these two came the piece de resistance - the twenty-four preludes of Chopin.
The presentation of the entire set of preludes is becoming more and more frequent, and there is every reason to rejoice that such is the case. Rubinstein once called them "the pearls of Chopin's works," and indeed when played together they form as it were a necklace of incomparable richness. Neither is the time they occupy in performance excessive, many piano compositions of infinitely less interest requiring considerably more. The most remarkable fact about them is that their mutual relationship is marked by far more psychological verity than is the case with that of the various movements of all the "organically constructed" sonatas ever written. Here we have a logical succession of all the subtlest emotional phases, without any sharp lines of demarcation such as the sonata divisions necessitate.
The poor superlatives of praise which a commentator must bring into use on such occasions are as impotent to give any adequate idea of the beauties of Mr. Busoni's performance as a verbal description of musc can be to convey an adequate impression to one ignorant of its sounds. To rhapsodize over the flawless perfection of his technic were the sheerest impertinence, to parade forth all the pet adjectives of the music critic in praise of his tone, his touch, his apparently inexhaustible command of color, his intellect, his imaginative qualities, his temperament, and his personality, worse than futile. Yet all of these particularly wonderful qualities figured strongly in his interpretations of the Chopin music and in that of the other composers represented. There is much that is novel in his treatment of the preludes, but yet it is always admirable, always replete with poetry, poignancy, vigor, tenderness. Seldom does one hear the familiar one in E minor done with such ineffable yearning, the little one in A major with such bewitching grace, or the "Raindrop" with such a show of passionate melancholy. Seldom are the ones in C sharp minor and B flat minor as scintillatingly brilliant as they were under his fingers. And few have ever succeeded in producing so thrilling an effect with the booming low A flat in the closing bars of the seventeenth. Several times during the course of the group the pianist was forced to rise and bow his thanks. At the end he was not permitted to retire in peace until he had added the Study in Thirds.
Mr. Busoni's rendition of the wonderful Bach number at the opening of his program must have been a tremendous revelation to those brought up in the fond and foolish idea that Bach must be delivered somewhat like a proposition in higher mathematics. Instead, he makes paramount that quality which renders Bach supreme - intense emotionalism. He played the wonderful adagio with melting tenderness, and the succeeding fugue with contagious vivacity. Such was the crystalline clarity of his technic that it almost seemed in the latter as though two or more pianos had been brought into use for the delivery of the different voices. The short numbers which followed the Bach are not masterpieces, but, thanks to the player's genius, they seemed so.
The wonderful and melodious sonata of Liszt aroused great enthusiasm, and the pianist frequently succeeded in converting his instrument into an orchestra - not from the standpoint of dynamic vigor, but rather from the infinite variety of tone quality such as no single piano would seem capable of producing. At its close the audience insisted upon more, and he gave them a Hungarian Rhapsody. Had he been in a more indulgent mood he might have continued satisfying the crise of "more" for over an hour longer.
